"You sleep mighty sound," says he, "and your bed none so easy!"
"I've known worse!"
"Aye—the rowing-bench of a Spanish floating hell, shipmate—ha?"
At this, I started and turned to look at him again. He was (as I say) a little man and clad in suit of russet-brown (very trim and sober), but at his hip he bore a long rapier or tuck, while in his ears (which were trimmed to points in mighty strange fashion) swung great, gold rings such as mariners do wear; his face was lean and sharp and wide of mouth and lighted by very quick, bright eyes, seeming to take in all things with swift-darting glances. A scar that ran from brow to chin lent to him a certain hangdog air; as to his age, it might have been thirty or forty or sixty, for, though he seemed vigorous and active, with smooth, unwrinkled face, his hair was snow-white.
"Well, shipmate," he questioned, meeting my searching gaze, "and how d'ye like me?"
"No whit!"
"Sink me, but that's plain enough!" says he, smiling ruefully. "So there's nought in me as draws you, then?"
"No!"
"'Tis pity, for I've a feeling we shall sail aboard ship together yet."
"How should you know I've rowed aboard a Spanish ship?"